Why Schools Do Away With Competitive Spelling
by alwaysflying
Summary: At the someodd annual Westchester County Spelling Bee, the six finalists have their eyes on the prize. And on each other...


---

The auditorium door is open, letting in the spring air. Inside, there are six chairs stationed in a semicircle on the stage, with a table and two chairs off to the side. Then there are the seats, which are empty as of right now, and the colorful decorations hanging from the walls and ceiling. The sun is a bright presence hovering directly above the skylight, or so it seems. The whole room is bold and almost neon. It is impossible to tell that there will be a loud, tense competition taking place here in less than twenty minutes. One of the reasons that it is so hard to know that is that, simply put, none of the contestants seem to be here yet.

But they will be here soon enough, bringing with them the drama of their families and the different stages of stress, nerves, and anxiety. There should be six of them, all between the ages of ten and thirteen – the middle school group. Observing them will be their families (cheering at other students' demises), their friends (though, admittedly, champion spellers seem to be rather lacking in the _friends _department), local journalists (ones out of favor with their bosses for resorting to cover such an event), and random people from the community. That last category cannot be explained; obviously, these middle-aged suburbanites have no idea what they are in for.

---

Joanne Jefferson is the first of the spellers to arrive at the site of the bee. This is generally considered bad luck – the first to arrive is assumed to be the first to leave. However, Joanne has a habit of being fashionably early, even despite her awareness of the fact that it really isn't fashionable at all – just annoying. She ignores these thoughts and settles on a chair on the stage. Her father bends over and smoothes down his daughter's skirt, all too aware of the consequences of one who does not look her best. At the same time, Joanne's mother is busily at work running her fingers through Joanne's hair, trying to get the wild locks to lay still, just for today, _please_. All of this is conducted in near silence, save for Joanne's humming and her father's whistling.

Three minutes after her arrival, Joanne is convinced that she looks her best, and shoos her parents away. They take their seats in the first row, and conversation is not lost; if anything, it is improved by their greater distance from each other, because Joanne needs to work on projecting anyway. In a deliberately loud voice that isn't quite shouting or even _calling_, she asks her father, "What time is it?"

In his lawyer voice, the one that is smooth and loud but still not _too _loud, Joanne's father replies, "Fifteen minutes 'till Showtime, kitten."

Joanne nods, crossing her ankles beneath the chair.

Fifteen minutes.

---

While Joanne's entrance was quiet and peaceful, the next family arriving at the bee is quite the opposite. There is the sound of a car door slamming, and then brisk footsteps indicate that the vehicle's occupants were exiting, not entering. The first person to enter is a man, and pokes his head into the room. "Tom!" he yells in a somewhat high-pitched voice. "Richard! Hurry _up_!"

Almost immediately, a man and a young boy enter the room. Both are dark-skinned, unlike their other companion, who is pale and has hair of so light a brown that it is almost blond. He looks out of place with… well, his relationship with the other two is debatable. Joanne and her parents certainly can't place it, not from what they've seen.

The boy has a mischievous smile and an contradictorily refined look about him – his haircut is new, his fingernails perfectly rounded, and his clothing is either brand-new or kept meticulously clean with detergent that is some sort of family secret. "Hi," he says brightly to Joanne. "I'm Tom Brandy-Collins. Those are my dads."

"Joanne Jefferson," she replies, unfazed (her parents are lawyers, after all), and extends a hand to him. Tom shakes it, feeling awkward, and immediately after releasing her hand, abruptly crosses the room to the vending machine.

"Richard?" Tom calls across the room. "Do you have a dollar? I want a soda."

The response from Richard is "Ask Mike. I didn't bring my wallet."

Before Tom can open his mouth to ask, his lighter-skinned father is already digging through a leather bag (looking mysteriously like a purse) that hangs from his shoulder like a purse. After a moment of this search, he locates a dollar bill and gestures for Tom to come retrieve it. Tom does, and returns to the vending machine.

Now seated in the first row, Tom's two fathers whisper urgently to each other. After a moment, one of them – Mike – looks up sharply and calls to his son, "Don't get Mountain Dew."

"Why?" Tom asks instinctively.

His father gives him a meaningful look. The boy nods curtly, and after some fumbling around with the vending machines (he gets a Coca-Cola, from what Joanne can see), he crosses the room back to his fathers. They whisper something in his ear and, blushing, Tom returns to his seat beside Joanne.

She quirks an eyebrow at him, and Tom informs her bluntly, "It's crude."

"Ah."

"Dads? How much longer?" Tom asks.

At that exact moment, everyone in the room checks their watch. "Nine minutes," says Mike, and a collective sigh runs through the auditorium.

---

The next two arrivals are simultaneous. Their names are Roger and Maureen, and are as wildly different as two children can be. Maureen has fiery hair and wears clothes that she designed herself; Roger is the well-dressed son of a man who is in the Army. They are cousins, and apparently entered the world of competitive spelling due to their parents' declarations that they needed to find something to do – when they were seven and eight years old. Since then, Maureen explains to Tom and Joanne, everything has been "smooth spelling."

Nobody laughs, but that's okay.

With the two children (well, Roger is thirteen and Maureen is twelve) came their parents, naturally. Roger's father looks – and probably is – stiff as a board, while his mother is a formidable presence with expensive clothing and shoes. Roger's father, Andrew, offers his son a bottle of sparkling water, which the boy takes, looking bewildered.

Looking mildly sympathetic toward her cousin, Maureen's interaction with her parents is much smoother. Her parents are the exact opposite of Roger's. Her mother, a waitress at a local diner, has a bright smile and upbeat attitude; her father, in the meantime, is the exact stereotype of a suburban father, with his jeans, friendly smile, and baseball cap.

As Maureen and Roger settle on the stage, quizzing each other quietly on words, Maureen's mother, Annie, bustles between the cousins, finger-combing their hair and whispering words of encouragement to them. From the audience, Roger's mother nods curtly to him, and it takes Maureen's hurried whisper in his ear to get Roger to maintain his not-quite-smile, not-quite-frown after that.

"How much time left?" Maureen chirps loudly, her arm around her cousin, when it seems like the bee should have started already.

"Five minutes," someone replies.

The four children glance at each other, each thinking the same thing: _I don't know if I can do this._

---

The next arrival is practically dragged in kicking and screaming.

Well, that might be a bit strong, but he doesn't look happy at all.

He arrives escorted by his mother. He is, undoubtedly, her spitting image, and when she sits him down on the stage (one chair away from everyone else, leaving a seat between him and a deeply offended Maureen), the boy looks ready to get up and grab her by the arm, insisting that she stay with him.

He is thirteen years old.

"What's your name?" Maureen asks, leaning over to him, ignoring the obvious conflict.

The boy ignores her at first in favor of watching his mother settle in a seat in the third row, but at last he turns back to face Maureen. "Hmm?"

"What's your name?" she repeats, enunciating every word.

The boy sighs, evidently still distracted by his mother. "Benjamin Coffin," he says at last. "Yours?"

"Maureen Johnson. And this is my cousin Roger Davis," she says, indicating the boy in question. Pointing further down the semicircle, she concludes, "Those are Joanne and Tom. Tom's really smart, he keeps talking about – "

Gritting his teeth, Benjamin wheels on Maureen. "I don't _care_," he snaps, and spins back around to look at the audience, watching his mother.

Roger whistles, low in his throat. "Well, well, _well_," he murmurs. "Someone forgot to take his meds this morning."

Tom bursts out laughing.

---

There are three minutes left until the beginning of the bee. The three adults that will be handling the event (the announcer, the "word pronouncer," and the comfort counselor) are already in their places. There is merely a single empty chair in the semicircle, separating Benjamin and Maureen, a glaring spotlight on an empty stage.

The three minutes tick by swiftly. The audience is nearly full, and the buzzing of the would-be viewers (would be, if this spelling bee ever actually got started) seems to be entirely focused on the matter of this mystery speller. Who is he – or she? Why is he – or she – so late?

But because of time constraints, Mrs. Gray, the announcer, and Vice-Principal Gordon, the word pronouncer, cannot wait for this contestant's arrival. Hopefully, Mrs. Gray decides, he or she will show up before the actual spelling begins; however, the bee must go on, and it is with great trepidation that she rises to her feet and steps up to the microphone in the center of the stage.

"Good afternoon, everyone," she says brightly, and her words echo on the walls of the auditorium. "My name is Jennifer Gray, and welcome to this year's Westchester County Spelling Bee!" Her smile is bright and looks perfectly sincere. "Alas, we cannot tell you what number this year's bee is – some people say thirty, others say forty, and I think spelling has been going on in lovely old Westchester since the beginning of time! So. That aside, welcome to _this _year's bee, and I hope you enjoy it!"

She pauses, wishing she had brought her note cards up with her. "Now, a few things before we begin," she says. "Firstly, I would like to make sure all the spellers are here. It appears that one is missing – according to my list of attendees, this chair should be filled by a Mr. Mark Cohen. Mark Cohen?" she calls into the microphone. "Are you in the auditorium?"

After a moment without a response, she sighs. "Well, it would seem that Mark Cohen isn't here. If he does show up, the rules state that he should be allowed to participate, provided that he make up the amount of words that each contestant has spelled prior to his arrival. On to other matters. I would like to direct your attention toward the generous gift from our sponsor, Pizza Hut, who has offered the winner of today's bee a free meal at their… ahem… _lovely _establishment. This meal can include up to four people."

Again, she pauses.

The door bangs open, and a boy runs in. All heads turn to the side of the room, where he is zipping down the aisle on the left-hand side. He stops at the stage, bounds up the stairs, and comes to a halt next to Mrs. Gray. "Hi," he pants. "I'm Mark Cohen. Is this where I check in?"

Quietly, Mrs. Gray seats Mark between Benjamin and Maureen, hoping that the boy's arrival will not _completely _ruin the quiet in the room – as it turns out, her hopes are meaningless, as the audience begins to buzz once again. "Well," says Mrs. Gray, shrugging and suddenly feeling rather claustrophobic, "Let's get started, then!"

---

"Will Joanne Jefferson, our first speller, please step to the stand?" asks Mrs. Gray primly.

Joanne does so, rising to her feet and running her hands down her skirt in a last attempt to smooth it down. She makes her way over to the microphone and stares into the audience, which is remarkably large.

Unwilling to let Joanne quickly spell her word and sit back down, Mrs. Gray peruses her notes on the girl. After a little noise of interest, she announces into the microphone, "Miss Jefferson is twelve years old, an only child, and, according to these notes, sleeps three hours a night."

In a deadpan, Joanne inquires, "May I please have my word?"

Stung, Mrs. Gray turns to Vice-Principal Gordon. Into his clip-on microphone, the vice-principal utters, "Capybara."

"Capybara," Joanne repeats quietly, and begins drawing the word in the air with her finger. This takes her several seconds, and after a while, she asks, "May I please have that word used in a sentence?"

"Certainly," replies Mr. Gordon, and after a moment, he says, "Joseph was startled to discover that it was unwise to put one's foot in the mouth of a capybara."

After the snickers subsided, Joanne nodded briskly and quickly declared, "Capybara. C-A-P-Y-B-A-R-A, capybara."

"That is correct."

Joanne hums softly to herself as she takes her seat.

---

The next speller is Tom.

His eyes averted, Tom steps up to the microphone cautiously, making sure not to step on any wires. As he reaches the stand, it is declared by Mrs. Gray, "Mr. Collins – "

"_Brandy-Collins_," Tom corrects her sharply.

"Mr. _Brandy_-Collins enjoys questioning authority, making crude jokes in class, and reading books that are on a college level. When he grows up, he would like to be a teacher."

Tom smirks. "All true," he says loudly.

Mike, far below, snaps his fingers. "Stop," he hisses. Unfortunately, this is audible to most of the audience. He blushes, and Tom chuckles. He's never been all that fond of Mike, to be honest.

Mr. Gordon loudly announces that Tom's word is "Cystitis."

"Definition, please?"

After reading the definition, Mr. Gordon shudders. "It's crude," he warns Tom, who snickers. With a sigh, the vice-principal recites, "Inflammation of the urinary bladder."

"I've heard cruder."

"The _spelling_, please, Mr. Brandy-Collins?"

"Hey," says Tom loudly. "You didn't even mention how my name's a drink."

"Is it?" asks Mrs. Gray.

Tom snorts. "I didn't expect _you_ to know. You don't look like you get out much. But I wrote it in my bio."

Mr. Gordon insists, "The _spelling_, please?"

Waving his hand inconsequentially, Tom swiftly replies, "C-Y-S-T-I-T-I-S."

"That is correct."

With a snicker, Tom returns to his seat.

---

Maureen is next. It is her goal not to stir up any trouble while spelling her word, so when she gets to the microphone stand, she does not say a word, waiting to hear what Mrs. Gray and Vice-Principal Gordon have to say.

"Miss Johnson is competing against her _cousin_," announces Mrs. Gray, "whose name is Roger Davis. The two of them have been participating in competitive spelling since they were very young."

Maureen taps her foot impatiently.

"Your word is _lugubrious_, Miss Johnson," says Mr. Gordon.

With a laugh, Maureen asks, "May I please have a harder word?"

"No."

Shrugging, she says, "Lugubrious. L-U-G-U-B-R-I-I-O-U-S. I _told _you I've been spelling since I was eight." With that, she sits down.

---

"Mr. Davis' father is in the _Army_," marvels Mrs. Gray. "Yet, the son of this brave soldier is looking forward to a career in art and music."

Roger whirls on her.

Intervening at the perfect moment, Mr. Gordon interrupts. "Mr. Davis," he says in his dull, dry voice, "please spell _flagellate_."

"Definition?" Roger asks casually, pulling a miniscule spiral notebook out of his shirt pocket and jotting down a potential spelling.

Mr. Gordon sighs. "To whip or flog," he mutters.

Roger snorts. "And can you use that in a sentence?"

Jumping in, Mrs. Gray suggests, "In Army training, it is rumored that flagellation is often used as a punishment."

"It's _not_," calls Mr. Davis from the audience.

"Don't help him!" Maureen yells.

"I wasn't _helping _him," sighs Mr. Davis, exasperated.

"Mr. Davis. Please spell _flagellate_," Mrs. Gray instructs.

Roger's eyes flash. "Flagellate," he says. "F-L-A-G-E-L-L-A-T-E."

He takes his seat.

---

"Benjamin here," says Mrs. Gray, "is known for his unique strategy. When testing out various possible spellings, he uses his fingernails to write the word on his arm, and vocalizes the spelling before the writing can fade."

Benjamin stares at his feet. Obviously, his strategy was intended to remain a masochistic little secret.

Glancing at the word Benjamin is to spell, Vice-Principal Gordon guffaws loudly. He points at it, and even Mrs. Gray chuckles a bit.

"Well?" asks Benny impatiently.

Mr. Gordon laughs a bit more, then states, "Mr. Coffin, your word is _sluice_."

Benjamin snorts. "Well, that's easy," he laughs. "S-L-U-C-E. Sluce."

Immediately, there is a _ding_.

For a moment, the meaning of the _ding _is forgotten; it seems to work, the spelling seems right, and the bell could just as easily mean that it was spelled _correctly_… right?

But Benny is escorted to his seat by the comfort counselor, a student up at the high school whose name is Paul.

The seat, however, is not on the stage.

It is with his mother, in the audience.

One down, five to go.

---

Of the first round, Mark is the last to spell his word. He walks up to the microphone carefully, as Roger did, and waits.

"Mr. Cohen," says Mrs. Gray, "says that when he grows up, he would like to make films. His first goal of what to film, according to his bio, is a fictional story about a young boy's neglect in his home."

Mark stares at his feet, not knowing what to say. The only thing that could make this worse for him would be if his mother or father were here, but for once, he is thankful that neither could make it.

He turns to Vice-Principal Gordon, awaiting his word.

"Mr. Cohen," says Mr. Gordon, "your word is _hasenpfeffer_."

Mark tilts his head to the side ever so slightly. In the semicircle of chairs, Maureen nudges Roger, murmuring something about this being Mark's first and last attempt at spelling. Roger kicks her.

"Can you give me the definition, please?" asks Mark in a timid voice.

"Certainly," says Mr. Gordon, evidently pleased with his manners. "A highly seasoned stew of marinated rabbit meat."

Mark cringes.

"It also says here that Mr. Cohen is a vegetarian."

Mark squeezes his eyes shut, evidently thinking. Quietly, into the microphone, he utters, "H-A-S-E-N-P-F-E-F-F-E-R."

He takes a seat.

---

The next few rounds are uneventful, what with the words growing easier and easier as the bee goes on. Once it is the fifth or sixth round, however, the words begin to grow more challenging once again.

"Miss Jefferson, please spell _rebus_."

"Mister _Bailey-Collins_, spell _mohel_."

"Miss Johnson… spell _phylactery_."

"Mister Davis… spell _ilspile_."

"Mister Cohen – _halitosis_."

It is in one particularly difficult round that Joanne receives an immensely challenging word: _staphylococcus_. She winces. She cringes. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to visualize the word. Nothing works.

Desperately, she asks, "May I please have the definition?"

She doesn't even _understand _it.

At last, she gives it her best shot. "S-T-A-P-H," she begins, and looks around the audience, seeing only signs of approval. "Y-L-O-C-K," she adds, and in a rush, adds, "O-C-C-U-S."

_Ding_.

It is disappointing, but then, Joanne never expected to get _that _word.

She had expected to win, in the beginning, but on her way back to her seat in the audience, she decides that maybe she didn't need to.

---

_Ding_.

"I spelled that right," Tom announces.

"Actually, Mr. Bailey-Collins, you did not."

He shakes his head vehemently. "I _know _how to spell _kakapo_," he drawls. "K-A-K-A-P-O. That's exactly how I just spelled it."

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Bailey-Collins, you spelled it _incorrectly_. Please take a seat."

"I spelled it _right_!" he insists. "Maureen – " he whirls to face his friend – "how did I spell it?"

"K-A-K-A-P-O," she recites dully.

"Dads? How did I – " he begins in desperation, then sighs exaggeratedly. "_Fine_. I spelled it right, but I think you're stupid anyway."

He is ten years old, and for that he can be forgiven his temper tantrum as he stomps down the stairs and is seated between his fathers.

---

With three contestants left, the game becomes more fierce. The words increase in difficulty: _Kinnikinnick_. _Gardyloo_. _Crepuscule_. _Onager_._ Halitosis_._ Boanthropy_.

Somehow – amazingly – the words given to Maureen are the simplest. When her cousin receives "crepuscule," Maureen is given "onager." When Mark has "catarjunes," she has "elephant."

At last, Maureen's luck catches up with her. Roger and Mark could both have predicted it; she was never the strongest speller, even if she could beat out most of her peers. She wasn't like Tom, who was a natural for it, or Mark, to whom it came easily because he was a writer. Maureen was simply lucky and had some raw talent.

When she is given "vug," Maureen laughs it off, thinking it is another of those ridiculously simple words. Laughing, she shoots out, "V-U-G-G, vug."

_Ding_.

From there, she is left cheering Roger on from the sidelines, and Mark has no one.

---

"Will the final two spellers please step forward?" asks Mrs. Gray, getting out of her chair. At last, there are only two remaining. Mark and Roger do as she says, stepping up to the microphone. "Now," says Mrs. Gray. "Before we continue, I want you to know that you have both tried your best, and are doing very well. What you answer to this question will in no way sway the end results – only the best speller can win, and nothing more than that – but I would like to hear your answer anyway." She turns to the boys. "Tell me, Mark and Roger, why do you want to win?"

Roger has an answer instantly, and says it. "I want to win," he says, "because I want to impress my dad. I want to win because he expects a lot from me, and I figure that if I have talent in this area, I may as well show it."

He flashes his father a smile, but cannot seem to make out the man's face in the crowd.

"Mark?" prods Mrs. Gray. "Why do _you _want to win?"

Mark appears to be scrounging around in his mind for the very best possible answer. At last, he appears to have it, and quietly says into the microphone, "Because I really don't have anything else."

---

"Mr. Davis," says Mr. Gordon. "Your word is _weltanschauung_."

Roger cringes. He remembers learning this word, remembers not spending enough time on it, quizzing Maureen on this word but never getting quizzed on it himself.

He tries, though.

"W," he says slowly. "E-L-T… A-N." He hesitates, looking around, trying to find Maureen's face, so long as his father's is invisible. "S… C… H… A… U." He pauses again, squinting hopelessly. To himself, he quietly repeats, "U. He looks around the room, desperate. _Where the hell is Maureen? _In the middle of this thought, his eyes dart around – and land on someone else.

Mrs. Gray.

She isn't that old – no more than thirty, at the very oldest. She has delicate features, a soft, smiling face, and gorgeous eyes. Roger can't _help _his attraction. He's thirteen, and he's just learning about the wonders of a certain part of his body.

Frantically, Roger wildly throws out, "That's it. Weltanschauung."

_Ding_.

"Fuck," breathes Roger. He knows that he still has a chance. If Mark gets his word wrong… he eyes the younger boy, praying that he'll mess up, be too intimidated to do well.

---

"Mr. Cohen," says Mr. Gordon. "Your word is _elanguesence_."

Mark nods, and closes his eyes again. Softly, he spells it to himself, trying to hear it, not to be heard. "E-L-A-N-G-U-E-S-E-N-C-E," he spells, and suddenly hears the echo of his letters throughout the room. He looks up, alarmed. Was he right?

He waits for the _ding_.

But there is no _ding_.

A minute passes before he understands what happened, and all Mark can do is sink down into his chair, crushed. As much as he loves having won this thing, what's the point if he has no one to share it with?

The trophy is presented to Mark, and he winces, but takes it. He is then handed the certificate to Pizza Hut, which he takes with much trepidation. He slides it into his pocket, his hands trembling. "Thank you," he says.

---

The bee is over, and people are beginning to go home. The six contestants – or former contestants – remain, however, to shift awkwardly from foot to foot and try to make conversation with their fellow losers and one, even more awkward winner.

Mark sighs, feeling the rustle of the certificate in his pocket. Nervously, he approaches Roger.

"Hi," he says quietly.

"Hi," says Roger, and there is no doubt about it, he is definitely bitter.

"I'm sorry," says Mark, but it doesn't sound right, somehow."

Roger shrugs. "No big deal," he says. But it was a big deal, and Mark knows it. He takes the paper from his pocket and proffers it to Roger.

"No," Roger says flatly.

"But I don't – "

"No."

Roger turns away, heading for Maureen, and Mark sighs. "I don't have anyone to _go _with," he explains desperately.

Roger pauses, turns around, and looks at Mark. "What about your parents?" he asks sharply.

"I'm a foster kid," Mark says. "The people I live with don't care about me. I'm usually home alone. As you can see, they're not here today."

Roger winces. "That bites."

"Yeah," Mark sighs.

"So you want me to take this?" Roger asks, fingering the edges of the certificate.

"Yeah," says Mark. "Please? You'd enjoy it more than I would."

Roger pauses. He sighs. He looks it over. "Four people, huh?"

He glances over at Maureen, then at Tom, and back at Mark. "You want to go now?" he asks Mark slowly. "_With _me?"

"Oh, I couldn't possibly – "

"I insist," Roger adds.

Mark sighs. "Sure, I guess," he says, and cracks a smile. "It couldn't hurt to be social."

"Now, _there's _a positive attitude!" Roger exclaims. He turns back to Maureen and Tom. "Hey! Mo! Tom! You want to come to Pizza Hut with me and Mark?"

Thankfully for Mark, the subject is dropped and not raised again.

Winning the spelling bee was the best thing that ever happened to him, he decides later, cracking up hysterically from some joke that Maureen told. The specifics don't matter, because Mark can _spell _it: _h-a-p-p-i-n-e-s-s_.


End file.
